“Not like you to miss.”
“I didn’t miss,” the Gingerbreadman said, tossing the shotgun aside and removing the belt of cartridges from his waist. “It’s just that I do so enjoy a certain ‘hands-on’ feel to my work. Using a gun does so distance one from one’s victims. Why, you cannot hope to smell the fear from farther than a couple of feet away. What enjoyment snipers get from their sport, I have no idea.”stared, his mind racing but his fear under control. The abomination at the door had killed—as far as Jack knew—112 times. One more was nothing to him. The Ginja rubbed his powerful, spongy hands together.
“What shall I pull off first, Jack? An arm? A leg? I could twist your head a full three hundred and sixty degrees…. Okay, fun’s over. I’d expected a better fight than this, but perhaps you aren’t the man I thought you were.”fired the revolver again, but the slug flew through the cakey body, this time hardly making a mark.
“Two left, Jack.”fired again and blew an icing button off the Ginja’s chest.
“That leaves one. I’ll think I’ll do your legs first, but from the knee down—a leg torn from the hip always results in rapid death through bleeding, and I want this to last. Unless you have any objections, of course?”smiled again, the murderous subroutines in his gingery body running through to their inevitable end. He was built for one purpose and existed for only one reason. Regardless of the ideological wasteland that governed his psychotic thought processes, he was a creature at peace with himself. His life, such as it was, had meaning., despite having a 280-pound monstrosity lumbering toward him, was oddly calm. He found himself thinking about Madeleine and the kids. He wouldn’t see them graduate, or even grow up. And then there was the wedding.
“Pandora.”
“Sorry?” said the Gingerbreadman, who was wondering whether to postpone the leg tearing in favor of something unbelievably unpleasant he’d seen happen to Mel Gibson at the end of Braveheart.
“My daughter. I’ll miss her wedding. It’s in a month.”
“Well,” said the Gingerbreadman reflectively, “I could just let you go—as long as you promise to come back straight afterward. No, just kidding. You’ll have to miss her wedding—and the birth of your first grandchild. You’ll miss your own memorial, too—but only by a couple of days.”wasn’t listening. He was thinking. There had to be a very good reason that Project Ginja Assassin had been canceled. He was such a perfect warrior. Intelligent, resourceful, amoral and indestructible. Cake or cookie? Did it matter? Jack had a sudden thought. Yes, it probably did matter. A cake went hard when it went stale, and a cookie went soft. It was a long shot but he had nothing to lose. He aimed his gun at the Gingerbreadman. He had one bullet remaining.
“You’re a cookie.”
“So?” asked the Gingerbreadman, intrigued by Jack’s sudden confidence. “What are you up to, Spratt?”
“This.”aimed the gun, not at the Gingerbreadman but at the fire-control system on the ceiling above them. The well-placed shot blew off the sprinkler head, and a stream of water descended onto them both. The Gingerbreadman frowned and looked at the water pouring off himself, tiny particles of gingerbread already being washed off and falling to the floor at his feet. Cookies soften because… they absorb water. He made for the door. The other sprinklers in the room, sensing the drop in pressure, fired simultaneously, spraying the room with even more water. The Gingerbreadman tripped over a table in his haste to escape, and another jet of water caught him on the legs. They softened and buckled under him. He got to his feet and reached the door just as the sprinklers fired in the atrium; there was no escape from the deluge.
“Quick thinking, Spratt!” he shouted, turning back as the water continued to gush down upon both of them, larger pieces of gingerbread now falling from his body as the moisture started to soften up his cookieish tissues. He studied one of his hands with interest as a chunk of gingerbread dropped off.
“They designed me as the perfect warrior,” he announced with a wry smile, “only with one fatal flaw—I can’t get wet. I’m dying, Jack.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Now, that’s not nice,” replied the Gingerbreadman reproachfully as an icing button dropped to the floor with a damp plop. He looked around and tried to pick up the shotgun, but his hands collapsed into mush around the weapon.
“Rats,” he muttered. “Well, no matter.”walked slowly toward Jack, who scrambled backward and threw his gun at the brown figure.
“Congratulations,” said the Gingerbreadman slowly, as larger pieces of gingerbread started to slough off his body in the never-ending stream of water. “I underestimated you.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Really? D’you know, in a way I’m almost glad it was you. I’d have liked to have been your friend. Perhaps that’s why I could never kill you—until now.”Gingerbreadman lunged at Jack, slipped on the wet floor and collapsed into a puddle of water. Jack ran quickly around to the other side of the room as the Ginja tried to get up and fell over again as his foot came off. But he wasn’t giving up, trying desperately to crawl in Jack’s direction using arms that disintegrated into pulp as he grappled with the slippery floor. He stared at Jack, his crumpled features registering annoyance that he’d failed rather than any sort of fear over his demise. An arm gave way, and he collapsed facedown into the pool of water. When he lifted himself again, he was without a face. His cherry eyes, red icing nose and licorice mouth had fallen into the large brown mass of sodden gingerbread that had gathered beneath him. He flailed around wildly as Jack looked on, the water running off Jack’s hair and down his neck causing him nothing worse than mild discomfort. The Gingerbreadman, now blind and mute and without any limbs, thrashed uselessly about in the center of the room.minutes it was all over. The most notorious and violent multiple murderer the nation had seen was nothing more than a soggy lump on the floor. Jack walked over and cautiously kicked one of the grapefruit-size glacé cherry eyes that only ten minutes before had flashed such evil confidence. Abruptly, the downpour stopped. The water ran off the tables, mixing and swirling around the brown stain in the middle of the floor. Jack paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, then splashed through the puddle and out the door and made his way back to the tank in the center of the atrium. Mary was still very much in danger, and if he could rescue her and secure McGuffin and the Alpha-Pickle, all might still be well. His phone rang, and he dug it out of his pocket. It was Briggs.
“You can arrest me later,” Jack snapped. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
“I may not arrest you at all,” replied Briggs. “I’ve just been talking to Vinnie Craps, Bartholomew and Ursula Bruin.”
“She can talk?”
“She can write. And she’s indicated a few very interesting facts about Demetrios that need closer scrutiny. Plus, Mr. Fuchsia’s neighbors have positively identified Agent Danvers as one of the Men in Green who were there this morning.”suddenly felt a huge weight begin to lift from his shoulders. For the first time that day, he had the feeling that everything might just possibly come out all right. As he began to breathe more easily, there was a thud of mortar fire, and he turned. Several parachute flares arced gracefully into the night sky and ignited above the theme park, illuminating the pockmarked landscape in a harsh white light. He turned back to his cell phone.
“The Gingerbreadman and Bisky-Batt are dead, sir, the cookie by me and Horace by Demetrios. I’m at SommeWorld. The fourth bear, McGuffin and Danvers are here, and I believe that Mary is in very grave danger. If you want to arrest me, you can—but please, after Mary is safe.”was a pause.
“Hold firm, Jack, I’m sending everything I have.”paused for a moment in thought then ran to the costume store. He returned to the turnstiles, used a fire ax on a large glass door and stepped into the cool night and the jagged, unnatural landscape of the park. The star shells drifted down, their bright white light trailing long streams of smoke in the clear sky. Then a single faint whompa pierced the quiet. A barrage was about to begin, and Mary was probably right in the center of it.ran down one of the supply roads as the steady crump, crump, crump of the barrage began to fill the air. The parachute flares faded and died, and the park was plunged into inky blackness. Jack stopped. He could hear the barrage building up, but the smoke had cleared and the night was pitch-black—he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. There was another thud of mortars as more star shells flew into the air, and with a crackle the parachute flares once more illuminated the landscape. Suddenly Jack jumped out of his skin—Danvers was not more then six feet from him, and she looked as startled as he was. He didn’t pause for a second—he planted a fist on her chin. She went down with a thump, and he relieved her of her pistol as she lay dazed on the ground. She had a pair of cuffs, so he dragged her to a nearby Model T and clipped her to a wheel spoke.
“I’m National Security!” she yelled as she regained what little sense she possessed. “I’ll have your head on a platter for this!”
“You’ll have to get in line.”
“YOU WON’T MAKE IT TO COURT, SPRATT!” yelled Danvers as Jack ran off into the park, the recent rain making the ground slippery. Ahead of him a support trench zigzagged down the hill, the detritus of war all around him. The propane burners had just been ignited, and the park was now aglow with flames that eerily illuminated the plumes of earth that were being blown skyward by the air mortars as the barrage increased in intensity. The Somme offensive had begun—but with only a couple of participants and this time, hoped Jack, without any loss of life. He took a left turn toward a forward observation post as several machine guns started to rattle somewhere ahead of him. He popped his head up in the OP and borrowed a pair of field binoculars that were lying on the firestep. He trained the glasses on the lines opposite and could see the plumes of soil lift large sections of the barbed-wire emplacements into the air. He stopped. In the middle of this no-man’s-land was an abandoned artillery piece and cuffed to it, being plastered by dirt and debris as air mortars detonated nearby, was Mary.ran as he had never run before. He slid into craters, pulled himself over barbed wire and climbed past piles of rubble toward the artillery barrage, the buried mortars blasting and churning the ground, each whompa unleashing up to a half ton of earth and throwing it fifty feet into the air. Jack didn’t stop when he reached the wall of destruction; he just carried straight on into it.was not in what you might call “a calm frame of mind.” The barrage had started a full thousand yards away and had slowly moved toward her, gaining in strength as it came. She had attempted to beat the handcuffs off her with a shell casing but without luck. The barrage moved closer and intensified around her, the harsh pressure waves making her feel nauseous and disoriented. A small charge detonated six feet away and blew her jacket and shoes clean off. Then, as the barrage seemed to reach a point at which every different explosion had merged into one huge directionless noise that reverberated around her, a corridor suddenly opened up in the curtain of flying soil, and a man dressed in torn clothes and covered in mud ran into the maelstrom and fell to the ground near her. Almost instantly the bombardment pulled back from where they were, and within a radius of ten feet, all was calm. Jack produced a set of clippers he had taken from a raiding-party kit and snipped the chains on her handcuffs.
“Can you walk?”nodded, and he led her into the bombardment, which seemed to part as they moved through it. By the light of the star shells and the flames, Mary could see the artillery piece that she had been handcuffed to only a moment earlier being tossed skyward as an almighty concussion lifted it clear of the ground.
“What the hell…?” screamed Mary, but Jack didn’t answer. Wherever they walked, the bombardment subsided. It was like moving through a crowd that respectfully parted to let you go in any direction. Jack led her back across no-man’s-land, and within a few minutes they were safely back on the support road—and Danvers, who glared sullenly at them as they walked past.
“How the hell did we manage that?” asked Mary, panting with exertion and fear. “Not be killed by the barrage, I mean?”pulled out of his pocket one of the safety-proximity alerts that Haig had shown them the first time they’d visited. They could have stood in the barrage all night, and not one mortar would have hit them.
“Where’s Demetrios?”
“What?” asked Mary, temporarily deafened by the barrage.
“WHERE’S DEMETRIOS?”pointed up to the control room, and they both ran back toward the building, just in time to see a figure dash into the visitors’ center clutching a black leather briefcase. The profile was unmistakable.
“DEMETRIOS!!!” yelled Jack.bear couldn’t hear him; Jack couldn’t even hear himself. He yelled at Mary to try to find McGuffin and stop the bombardment, then ran in the direction the head of NS-4 had taken. The bear was not out of shape and made far better speed on all fours than Jack could do on two. Jack only caught up with him at the parking lot, and only then because Mr. Demetrios had stopped. It was not difficult to see why. In the parking lot and facing the Small Olympian Bear was perhaps the biggest armada of police cars that Jack had ever seen. Briggs had outdone himself. There was everything. It looked like a field full of twinkling blue lights. Two police helicopters hovered overhead, their powerful search beams centered on the small bear. Abruptly, the barrage stopped. A silence descended on the scene. Jack’s ears were ringing, and he still shouted, even though it was hardly necessary.
“Demetrios!”small bear turned.
“You’re under arrest, bear—for murder.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I do. On the ground.”
“You can’t arrest me.”
“I can.”
“You can’t!”
“He’s right, Jack.”was Briggs, and he approached the two of them cautiously.
“He’s NS-4, Jack, and outside our jurisdiction. We have to get a warrant from the Home Secretary. The Chief Constable is on the phone to her at the moment, but the case is taking some explaining. Don’t worry, though. We’ll still have him. Once you write your report, he’ll be inside quicker than you can say ‘corrupt civil servant.’"bear looked at Jack. He had been surprised himself at the turn of events.
“Let him go now and you’ll not see him again!” Jack shouted to Briggs. “Contained in that briefcase are the details of a technology that will grant him asylum in any nation he chooses!”
“The law is the law, Jack,” insisted Briggs. “We can’t touch him.”’s shoulder’s slumped, and Demetrios grinned.
“Like he said, Jack, You can’t arrest me. I’ll be on my way with my property.” He patted the briefcase and adjusted his tie. “Bad luck, Inspector. I guess I’ll see you about.” He looked around for transport. “And do you know,” he added, “I think I’ll even borrow your car.”
“Be my guest.”smiled again, but it was a smile of relief. The probable course of events that Jack had outlined was pretty near the truth. He would be out of England in less than an hour, and he could then pick a country at leisure in which to instigate phase two of his plan. He jumped into Jack’s Allegro and threw the briefcase on the passenger seat. He started the car and drove slowly toward the gates of the theme park, the assembled officers moving aside to let him pass.
“I’m sorry,” said Briggs. “We couldn’t hold him. Politics.”
“Don’t be,” replied Jack quietly. “He won’t get far.”they watched, one side of the car collapsed, a suspension arm giving way. The rear screen shattered, followed by a clattering noise from the engine and a few puffs of blue smoke from the exhaust. With a grinding of metal, the front of the car started to pull itself in, releasing a trail of brown radiator water. Rust popped out along the bottom of each door, and all the lights extinguished. The car juddered to a halt as another suspension arm gave way and all four tires burst in quick succession. A dent appeared in the roof, and the damage that Jack had inflicted on the car against the tree started to make itself known again, the rear buckling up as the car squirmed and shook and it gently imploded with a shudder. There was an agonized cry from within as the Small Olympian Bear tried to escape, then, with a rattling and grinding of metal, the car rapidly collapsed in on itself, crushing Mr. Demetrios to a painful death and leaving the car nothing more than a piece of gnarled scrap sitting in a lake of black sump oil and rusty water.
“Gosh,” murmured Briggs, “was that an NCD thing?”
“Not really,” replied Jack, “but the theory’s similar.”stared at the crushed car and thought that if it hadn’t been for Mary and Ash, that might have been him winging his way to eternal damnation. As it was, it occurred to him that perhaps the Dark One had got a bum deal—Demetrios would have made his own way to hell in the fullness of time, without an Allegro Equipe to take him there.
“Jack,” said Briggs, laying a hand on his shoulder, “you’ve got a serious amount of explaining to do.”
“Of course,” replied Jack. “There were these three bears, see, and one morning they made some porridge and went into the forest while it cooled—”
“Not now. Get a decent night’s sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning. You did well. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Jack,” said Mary, who had just arrived at his side, “I want you to meet Professor McGuffin. I found him in the—” She looked around in confusion. “That’s funny,” she murmured. “He was here a second ago.”smiled, opened his cell phone and dialed home. Madeleine would want to know he was all right, but, more important, he just wanted to hear her voice.Jack Spratt was unanimously declared “more or less sane” by a medical review board and was reinstated as head of the Nursery Crime Division. He received a Distinguished Conduct Award for his expert tackling of the Gingerbreadman. He continues to live and work in Reading.Ashley was taken home, patched, refilled with rambosia vitae and had his memories uploaded from his memory jar. Due to the infrequency with which he had conducted backups, the last two weeks of his life were irretrievably lost. He still works at the NCD, has no idea why he was awarded the Ursidae Order of Friendship and hopes one day to pluck up enough courage to ask Mary out for a date.Mary Mary was not charged or reprimanded over her “lewd behavior.” It was decided that jurisdiction could not be firmly established, since the offense occurred 220 miles above the Atlantic Ocean in an advanced form of alien technology at twelve times the speed of sound. She continues to work at the Nursery Crime Division and hopes that Ashley might once again ask her out for a date.Demetrios died from multiple crush injuries. The recovered briefcase contained notes relating to the highly improbable idea of using auto-deuterium-extracting cucumbers as fuel for a Cold Ignition Fusion reaction. Such an idea is quite impossible and belongs in the realms of loony pseudoscience. The briefcase also included a pickle, presumably his lunch. It was consigned to the waste-bin.McGuffin, despite being hazily identified by DS Mary, remains officially dead. Two years after Nick Demetrios’s death, a garden near Madrid erupted into a fireball that fused soil and melted iron. No suitable explanation has yet been forthcoming, but Dr. Parks is investigating.and Judy sold their house next to Jack and Madeleine, explaining that they wanted to go and make some noise next to some real neighbors. They were last heard of making an appalling nuisance of themselves in Slough and continue to be the finest marriage counselors in the Southeast.Bartholomew retired from politics and returned to his legal practice in Reading. He now specializes wholly in nursery law, and does pro bono work for bears. He is currently defending Tarquin Majors on charges of smuggling forty thousand gallons of surplus Europorridge to needy bears in Eastern Splotvia.is still behind schedule, but problems should be ironed out “by Christmas.” Despite this, Mr. Haig insists “the situation is favorable.”Hatchett remains a staunch supporter of the NCD and backs it fully in all its undertakings. The job of uninformed criticism of the NCD has been taken over by Hector Sleaze of The Mole.Great Long Red-Legg’d Scissor-man was sentenced to eight years for assault but was released over a technicality. His whereabouts are unknown. The NCD has issued a bulletin exhorting children not to suck their thumbs, just in case.Gingerbreadman’s hospital uniform, fountain pen, thumb, elephant gun and a single glacé cherry eye can now be viewed in a special exhibition at Reading Museum, along with his original seven-foot-high cutter, and declassified Project Ginja Assassin material, kindly loaned by the QuangTech Trust (Foss), PLC.. and Mrs. Bruin survived the attack on their lives and have returned to their cottage. They received counseling from the Punch™ marriage counselors and are delighted to report that there are now only two beds in the house. They continue to eat porridge and take long walks in the forest.Wooten of Oak Ridge, Tennessee, for his assistance in matters regarding physics and atoms and fusion and suchlike.Stodart of Cape Town, who coined the “right to arm bears” phrase, which lent itself well to the novel.Mudron and Dylan Meconis of Portland, Oregon, for their excellent frontispiece and work on my postcards and merchandising. Further examples of their artwork can be found at www.thequirkybird.com (Dylan), www.excelsiorstudios.net/ (Bill).Roberts, who once again puts up with a partner who is in residential absentia for five months of the year.Mays and Molly Stern, two editors cut from the finest cloth, who never push me that hard, even when the manuscript is the teeniest-weeniest bit late.Koss and Emma Longhurst, the best publicity gurus in the known galaxy, whom I am lucky to have.unsung multitudes at Hodder and Penguin Group (USA), who have been so utterly supportive of my efforts.Loehnis, Eric Simonoff and all the hardworking associates at Janklow and Nesbit, without whom I would as likely as not still be making Snicketty-Dicketty breakfast cereal commercials, and hating it.the master himself, Jonathan Swift, for the initial inspiration for this novel:had been eight years upon a project for extracting sunbeams out of cucumbers, which were to be put in vials hermetically sealed, and let out to warm the air in raw inclement summers.Nursery Crime Division, the Reading Police Department and the Oxford & Berkshire constabulary in this book are entirely fictitious, and any similarities to authentic police procedures, protocol or forensic techniques are entirely coincidental, and quite unintentional.
Дата добавления: 2015-10-21; просмотров: 24 | Нарушение авторских прав
| <== предыдущая лекция | | | следующая лекция ==> |